


Light Comes Through the Leaves

by Wildgoosery



Series: I'm With the Band [18]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-03 03:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildgoosery/pseuds/Wildgoosery
Summary: Carey and Killian host a social engagement. Taako and Kravitz negotiate a series of awkward conversations. Brad eats a quiche.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brad is offered fried food, friendly advice, and a chance to use his Music History minor. Taako is cornered by randos. Kravitz makes his own fun.

Of course Taako came to Carey and Killian's housewarming -- he’s not sure why everyone acted so shocked when he agreed to go without argument. Sure, he's generally steering clear of big shindigs these days but they're good kids, and he's barely seen them at all since he quit the Bureau. Barely seen  _ any _ of his old coworkers, although he's just fine with that in most cases. His interest in socializing with randos is at an all-time low, regardless of whether or not they used to live on the same fake moon as him.

Lup and Barry and Kravitz picked him up at The Davy Lamp, and helped him convince Ren to come along, too -- she’s been banging her head against his half-baked magic school idea for weeks without a day off, and he was starting to feel like kind of a shit about it. They rolled into Carey and Killian’s kitchen about an hour early with a bag full of fresh-baked zucchini bread, and now Taako is listening to Carey and Kravitz chat about bands they both like, and Ren has gotten the meatballs started, and it's nice. Nice and chill, and soon improved by Magnus and Merle and their weeks long,  _ highly _ entertaining debate over whether or not Chesney's is haunted. (It isn't, according to Kravitz, but Taako has instructed him to keep his mouth shut.)

There really isn’t any such thing as “normal“ these days -- maybe never will be -- but this is close enough. Good people, good food, and no surprises. No one here will ask for his autograph or lurch toward him for a selfie. None of this will be in the tabloids tomorrow. 

There's nothing but beer and cider in the kitchen, so Taako wanders off in search of the  _ real _ drinks table, which turns out to be in the living room. The good stuff is no doubt hidden in an upstairs closet -- Killian’s not an idiot -- but there's a pretty decent spread, including Krav's favorite trashy whiskey. A tub of ice and bottles sits on the floor beside the table, from which Taako selects a rosé, and he pours himself a generous share into a plastic cup.

Carey pokes her head in from the hall. "Hey yo, Taako! Real quick, before things get nuts..."

Oh, this has  _ got _ to be gossip. Taako's ears perk toward her as he sips his wine. "What can I do you for?"

She leans against the doorframe, swirling a bottle of cider in her hand. "So look, I swear she's been keeping this on the DL, but ah...well you know. Me and Killian, we don't like to hide shit from each other. So she filled me in on some things."

"Sure."  

"And hey, just to be clear like, Mags is my bro but he's not gonna catch a word about what went down from me," Carey says, which is about when the alarm bells start going off for Taako. "Like, seriously, me an' Kicks don't wanna make a whole thing out of this, you got enough of people knowing all your business."

Taako doubles-down on his affect of unconcern. "Carey, you're a peach and I love you, you know I do," he drawls, "but I haven't the faintest idea what you could mean."

"Bradson's invited," she says. "He might swing by later." 

Taako can't remember the last time he heard that name spoken aloud by someone other than himself. He summons his most effervescent, unconcerned laugh and says, "Oh is  _ that _ all? Listen, you're sweet to worry but that whole..." A vague, dismissive wave. "That's ancient history. We're grownups, we can play nice, Taako's not gonna flounce outta the room at the sight of some guy he nailed a couple of times, it's fine."

Carey's reptilian face can be difficult to read, but she's frowning in a way that makes him wonder what exactly Brad told them. All she offers, though, is a cheerful "A'ight" and a punch in the arm. And she leaves, presumably heading back to the kitchen to help with whatever's still happening in there. Which gives Taako a moment alone with his wine to process what she said.

Maybe Brad won't even show, and if he does he'll ignore Taako completely, just like he did at the Gala. Like he did for those last few weeks before Wonderland, and in the chaos of funerals and rebuilding which followed. Taako handed his resignation to Lucretia directly for the grim satisfaction of it, and Charity took care of all the paperwork. And hell, even seeing  _ her _ was bad enough, with Brad's closed door behind her desk, the blinds drawn down over the window of his office. Knowing that Brad was sitting in there with Taako's entire fucking backstory etched into his brain, which went right through weird into unbearably fucking awkward, Jesus, he hadn't even told Brad about the boring fake version of his pre-Bureau life.

The idea of running into Brad again in this cosy normal house, watching from a few feet away as he drinks his beer and chats with Fangbattles, is extremely strange. Kind of charming, also, in a way that Taako really doesn't want to examine and tries to shove aside. But he can’t quite shake the image of Brad with a bottle in his hand, his glasses reflecting warm lamplight. Probably with some new dude, like let’s be real, it’s been months and Brad’s hot as fuck. Now that he’s not stuck on a secret moon base all the time, he’s gotta be like, up to his ears in dick, right? 

“Oh my god, Taako, what is your fucking problem,” he says to the empty living room. And as the answer isn’t something he super wants to think about right now, he grabs the bottle of rosé and sets off to find someone to distract him.

*

Brad decides to bring two growlers of beer, a potted plant (some things are just  _ done _ ) and a gift certificate for a hardware store, largely because he can't be sure what tools Carey and Killian might already own. Their new house is about an hour's walk from his apartment, so he walks, the plant in both hands and the rest in a bag slung over his arm. The real bite of winter hasn't set in, and it's nice to get some exercise outside the gym for once, out in the real world. It’s pleasant, if strange, to walk along a road past faces he doesn’t recognize and buildings he’s never seen.

His life is still inside the Bureau’s orbit, although the details have changed quite a lot since the end of the world. He convinced Lucretia that a floating base was a waste of resources without the need to stay hidden, which was a key step toward something like normalcy. But she loves the object itself so dearly, its arboretum and the open quad, the domes and the looping corridors, the history of the walls, that she couldn’t bear to part with it. And Brad, in turn, had worked with her for too long, too closely, to leave her to face this dilemma alone.

So they found a plot on the banks of the Swiftfoot River large enough for a counterfeit moon, and set down into scaffolding provided by Miller ingenuity and fortune. They built a dock on the river, a station on the rail line between Neverwinter and Goldcliff, a road to neighboring villages. Filled in all the infrastructure of a real place of work -- somewhere you went and then left again. Bureau of Balance to Bureau of Benevolence; secret base to office building.

Dormitories empty, or converted, or torn out. No one resides at the Bureau anymore save Lucretia, who hasn’t yet figured out a new way to live. And Brad, who would say he doesn't want to. Who still sleeps in his same bed, walks the same hallways to his office, everything the same except the view outside his window: trees and river stones instead of the slow procession of landscape in miniature.

Brad understands he can’t keep doing this forever but it’s easy to stay busy; easy to put off deciding what will follow. And so he’s settled into an anemic shadow of old routines, familiar but diminished. The overwork and isolation made a little silly, a little pathetic, without the shadow of deadly relics or the threat of apocalypse. Noble sacrifice turned on its head into something more like an excuse. Hiding behind his bracer for no reason but a lack of reasons not to.

Carey and Killian still work for Lucretia, but they moved out of their old dorms months ago, first to an apartment and now this tidy little house at the edge of a wood. The windows pour buttery light onto the road, the winter garden. Loud laughing silhouettes move behind the curtains, their voices dulled by the bass thump of music. A crowd has spilled out onto the front porch, perched along the railing with drinks in their hands. 

A couple of them are coworkers, and they call out to Brad as he comes up the front walk. They smile and try to wave him over, but he hefts the bag and the houseplant and flashes an apologetic smile, then circles around to the back door.

Brad jogs up narrow wooden steps and ducks into the steamy warmth of the kitchen. There are too many people in here, practically speaking, most of them in a knot around the stove, where Killian stands over a large cast-iron skillet of bubbling oil. 

"Bradson!" She salutes with a pair of tongs. "Just in time for corn tusks."

"I don't really eat fried food," he says, but  _ gods _ it smells fantastic. Like onions and black pepper and his grandparents' kitchen. 

He deposits the plant on a spare stretch of windowsill, adds his beer to the grove of bottles on the counter and then shoulders through Killian's onlookers -- a few Bureau employees, current and former; a couple of orcs who look enough like Killian to be family. 

Once he's near enough for it, Killian nudges him with an elbow. "Wasn't sure you'd make it."

"You invited me."

"Sure, like we invited the Director.”

"She'll be along later," Brad says. Glances at the faces around him and amends a vague, "Meetings."

"Mmmmmmmhmmmm." Killian flips the little corn-batter tusks, perfect and golden. The oil crackles. “Like the ‘meetings’ you told me about when you said you might not make it tonight?”

Brad’s mouth twitches into a smile. “The very same.”

Killian glances back over her shoulder. Says, voice lower, “So uh, hey, fair warning. The twins rolled in about an hour ago."

"Well," Brad says. Neutral, careful. Most everyone here knows his business by now, but there’s no point in heaping dry brush on the gossip fire. "That explains the music choice."

“Shit, you haven’t met her, have you?” Killian asks.

Brad has not spoken to Taako since that elevator run-in last summer. And he has only ever directly experienced Lup as a laughing face across a room, or a voice in Lucretia’s Stone.

Brad arranges his features into something pleasantly bland and says, “Not formally.”

“She’s nice,” Killian says. “Kind of a lot of a lot, but you know. Good people.”

“I didn’t realize you still moved in those circles.”

Killian laughs and grimaces a little. “It’s kinda weird, yeah, but Carey and Burnsides are real tight, so-”

"Hey, Kicks," says one of the Orcs standing nearby. Eyes on her Stone as she taps a message out with her thumbs. "Mom says she's gonna pick up ice, you need anything else?"

"Trash bags," Killian says. She waves the tongs at her audience. "Y'all gotta stop crowding me, all right? Git! I'll bring these out when they're done. Not you," she adds, when Brad moves to walk away with the others. She nudges tusks around in the pan, eying him sideways. And once the kitchen has emptied out she says, measured. "He brought the new guy with him."

"Are we describing six months as ‘new’?”

“Bradson-”

“Assuming it’s the same person, of course, I’ll admit I haven’t kept up with the tabloids.”

Killian huffs, annoyed, and rolls her eyes. "Hand me the plate with the paper towels."

"I think we’ve all spent enough breath on that crowd and their affairs," Brad says. She takes the plate from him and sets it down on the counter beside her. "I’m here to congratulate you and your  fiancée on your new home. Speaking of which, where would you like me to leave your gift?"

"There's a pile in the living room." Killian lifts the tusks one-by-one with the tongs, shaking off the last few drops of oil before setting them out to drain. "Look, you don't have to talk to him if you don't want-"

"I can't imagine who you mean."

"Taako," she says, consonants clipped. She reaches for the bowl of batter and begins to drop the next batch of tusks in, oblong lumps measured out with a wooden spoon. "Have you even  _ seen _ him since that whole ess-an-ess?"

He has not. The last time Brad was near any of the former Reclaimers or their associates was the Landfall Gala, and having installed himself as event planner, it had been easy enough to avoid the guests of honor. Too busy with the catering to chit chat over champagne. "I haven't had occasion to socialize with retired employees, no," Brad says. 

"You should talk to him.”

"I thought you said I didn't have to?"

"Don't be a shithead." She tests one of the tusks on the paper towel with her finger, picks it up and holds it out for him. "It's only gonna get weirder.”

“It isn’t-”

“It’s incredibly obviously weird,” Killian says, “figure it out, Bradson. Y'all are gonna keep showing up to the same parties."

“Hmm.” Brad takes the proffered tusk and bites it in half. A crisp break through to a soft interior, steaming and savory. "Gods, these are perfect."

"Tell that to my mom when she gets here, she's always nagging me to take them out sooner." Killian sighs. Reaches out to rap, gently, on the top of Brad's head with her knuckles. He’s about two inches shorter than her. "You know I'm gonna pick you if that's what it comes down to," she says. "Just try, okay? For me? Burnsides is gonna be over here all the time, and the Reds are all joined at the hip."

Brad chuckles. "Is that what we're calling them?"

"Less of a mouthful."

He snags another tusk from the plate. "Charity tells me you still haven't turned in your pension beneficiary nominations." 

Killian snorts. "All right, beat it, nerd," she says. "And be  _ nice _ , this place is crawling with Fangbattle in-laws and they'll think you're my cousin or something. Don’t make me look bad."

Dutifully, Brad assembles a bland professional smile as he slips through the crowd at the kitchen door and out into the big front hallway. People are everywhere -- sitting on the steps with plates of slow-cooker meatballs in their laps, pointing out faces in the old family portraits that line the walls, leaning on the frames of every doorway. A record player on the front porch blasts something raucous about shots and thong underwear, which rattles in through the windows and crowds all conversation into shouting volume.

That’s fine. He'll locate the living room, and drop his gift off in the pile, and find Carey to say hello, and by then he'll have stayed long enough for politeness. 

Between the Orcs and the Dragonborn, Brad's usual command of the social airspace is ruined, and so he picks a door at random that he's fairly sure isn't a closet. 

It isn’t the living room, either; once he’s shouldered past the crowd in the doorway he's left standing at one end of a cosy dining room. All around the long table that fills most of the space, people are sitting in carved wooden chairs, or are perched on the windowsills, or have leaned with their backs to the wall and the sideboard. All facing the figure who sits, cross-legged, on top of the table itself.

He's facing away from the door, and from Brad, as he listens to a young drow woman. Soft blonde hair twisted up into bun, wisps falling along the graceful lines of his neck. Sharp ears high and attentive. Chin resting on a long-fingered hand, his elbow propped on one knee. All immediately, intimately familiar.

"It's just that it's a tad difficult for me to stand up there with a straight face," the woman is saying, "and tell potential investors that your school is a sure bet when you keep a runnin’ commentary on how much you hate children.”

“I don’t hate  _ all _ children,” Taako drawls. “See this is where the rigorous selection process comes in.”

“Name one child you like,” the woman presses. “And don’t say Angus, he’s already enrolled at the Miller school and  _ very happy there, Mr. Taako. _ ”

“We’ll clone him,” Taako says, deadpan. “There you go, problem solved.”

Laughs and groans from their audience. Someone thumps the woman on the back, commiserating. She must be Ren, Brad thinks. Ren and Taako and their slapdash plans for a school of magic, which he has resolutely refused to learn anything about. 

Taako stretches his legs out on the table in a V, plants his hands flat between them, leans forward in mock seriousness and says, "Listen. I dunno what to tell you, kid, it’s slim pickings. Ango Army’s the only way forward."

Brad escapes to the hall. What he wants in that moment is to shove through the party and out into the evening air, and to keep walking until he’s back in his own apartment. Killian would make excuses for him. He could mail the card tomorrow. 

Half a year and yet here he is, dry-mouthed and sweating. Hiding from someone who hadn’t even seen him, who probably hasn’t thought about him since they last spoke. 

There’s a specific humiliation to being so affected by someone like Taako. Brad felt it in the woods at camp, watching Taako saunter toward him in the firelight -- the gravity of a performer’s charisma, slowly reeling him in. And now Taako is the center of everyone’s attention, a celebrity and a hero, known by all and adored by most. Taako is a cultural icon, a universal touchstone, and Brad is ragged from ten seconds of watching him, that twinge of embarrassment grown louder and louder, rattling his nerves, almost unbearable.

Brad stands beneath the staircase with his back to the wall and waits for his heart to slow. He was surprised, is all. The last few months have been stressful and isolating. He’s let himself spend too much time alone. The swell in his chest is a reflex, just him tripping over the debris of sense memory and habit. All his own fault for not having replaced those old abandoned paths with something new.

He selects another doorway and weaves his way toward it. Steps into a room filled with squashy couches -- a promising sign -- as well as a great many more people. 

Magnus Burnsides is parked beside a large copper punch bowl, chatting with Avi and a young Dragonborn man whom Brad doesn't know, but suspects is Carey's brother. Avi spots Brad by the doorway and holds up his glass of punch in a salute. Brad flashes an office smile and waves the card, eyebrows arched in a question, and Avi points to the stone fireplace built into the far wall.

The mantle is piled with wrapped gifts and decorative bags and a teetering stack of envelopes. Brad takes the card from his bag, sets it with the others. Notes, despite trying very hard not to, the large floral-print parcel with a prominent label declaring it to be from "Taako & Kravitz."

Muffled laughter erupts in the hall, a not-quite-Taako cackle, and Brad scans the room a second time. Notices what he hadn't before: a glass door in the far corner, close to the windows overlooking the backyard. Not a closet, surely, but maybe an exit to some cozy patio. He could slip out, find his way back to the kitchen, say goodnight to Killian and be home at a reasonable hour.

Brad moves through the crowd, toward the glass door. There's a pause in the thumping porch music as someone changes the record, and in that relative quiet a plucked handful of notes rise above the conversations around him. Just enough to catch his ear before it's swallowed by the roar again.

At the door he pauses to peer in through the rectangular panes, to a room that's far smaller and dimmer than this one, and filled with shadowed shelves of plants. Lit entirely by the moonlight which streams in through a curved wall of windows to pool on leaves and petals. And on a figure who sits in one of a pair of wicker chairs, curled around a guitar. 

A man whom Brad doesn't recognize. Dark skin and large, serious eyes. Curly hair spilling down the side of his head that isn't shaved. Full lips pursed in concentration. Narrow shoulders beneath a crisp collared shirt.

Not an exit, then, but maybe still an escape. It wouldn’t kill him to make conversation; he can’t remember the last time he spoke more than a few words to someone he doesn’t work with.

The man looks up when Brad raps the glass with his knuckles. He smiles, unselfconscious, and gestures welcome.

"Sorry to intrude," Brad says as he steps inside. It's warmer in here. Humid. 

"Oh no, I don’t mind in the slightest," the man says. "It's only that I'm a bit out of practice at this sort of thing."

"Guitar?"

"Hmm?" The man looks down at the instrument he's holding, as if he'd temporarily forgotten it. Laughs and says, "Ah well, yes, that too. But in this instance I rather meant loud parties.”

The door clicks as Brad pulls it closed behind him. He says, "I'm not really one for them myself."

The man waves to the second chair with a flourish. "Then by all means, join me in hiding." 

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Brad says as he takes a seat. The wicker creaks under his weight. “It sounded like you were in the middle of something.”

The man chuckles. “In the middle of losing my mind over folly,” he says. “I’ve had a song right on the tip of my brain for days but I can’t quite string it all together.”

Brad smiles a little, genuine. “Maybe I can help.”

“I’m afraid it’s likely a bit obscure,” the man says, and Brad feels a little thrill at that. It might be shallow, but he  _ did _ minor in Music History, and he isn’t often handed an opportunity to show off.

“Try me,” Brad says.

The man laughs and resettles the guitar in his lap. "Ah...hang on a tick, sorry," he says as he finds his fingering. "I haven't picked one of these up in an age." A couple of experimental plucks, and then he plays again through fragments of melody. Humming a little as he finds his way there, which Brad is now close enough to hear.

"It sounds Dwarven," Brad offers. "Oceanside, maybe. With a little of the mountains mixed in."

"I thought that," the man says, "the melody certainly seems to be. But the time signature's all wrong."

"Hmm." Brad taps his chin. "Play it again?" He listens -- more carefully, now -- and somewhere in the middle he snags on just the right chord. Grins and says, "Wait, back up a measure." And when the man comes to that place again, Brad begins to sing -- a fragment of Elvish lyric, half-remembered from college. 

"Yes!" the man says. "Yes, that's… they must have switched the meter around when they adapted it." He laughs, delighted, and thumps the guitar with his palm. "Right, well, we had better toast the end of my torment, it's only civil." He reaches down under his chair for what turns out to be a half-full bottle of whiskey. Takes a long sip right from the neck and then holds it out for Brad to take, grinning wickedly.

Brad accepts the bottle. Catches the man's eyes with his own, holding them a few beats beyond casual. Breaks that contact only to tip his head back for a long burning swallow.

"Do you take requests?" he asks as he hands the whiskey back.

“Only if you’ll continue as vocalist,” the man says. “My partner is a lovely man with many talents, but his singing is of the strangled-cat variety.”

Ah. “My apologies, I think I’ve misread-”

“Oh no, no I don’t think you have,” the man says. He takes another sip of the whiskey and places it on the floor beside his chair. “But I’ve found that transparency is best with these sorts of things. Saves all involved some trouble later.”

Brad spent most of his college years in one Scene or another. He’s been with plenty of men who were involved with someone else, casual hookups in most cases, more serious in others. He’s not normally one who likes to share, but then.

Here he is, two rooms over from his ex. Sitting in a moonlit greenhouse with a charming handsome stranger. Nothing but a stack of insurance forms and an empty bed waiting for him at home.

Brad says, “Do you know ‘All Along the Emerald Coast?’” An old ballad from home, about longing and second chances and kissing on the beach at dawn. A bit on the nose, maybe, but a perfect fit for his voice, and for the mood.

The man smiles at him, coy, and begins to play.

*

"So to be like, crystal clear," Taako says to Ren, fingertips drumming the tabletop, "I  _ absolutely _ did not remember you that first time."

"Oh, I know," she says. Laughs and waves this aside, easy. "Taako, that wagon of yours must've gone through a hundred towns at least, you can't be expected to remember some scrawny Drow girl from a podunk corner of the Underdark."

"Sure, and then I lied to you about it the next time around," he says, needling her on purpose. She’s slipped back into the habit of cheerful respect which makes Taako feel like her grandpa instead of her asshole business partner. "Like I deliberately scammed you out of a diamond for a fake-ass seminar."

Ren shrugs, still smiling. "For good reason, I think. What with being stuck in a deadly time loop an’ all."

"Ren, sweetheart, you know I love you but come.  _ On _ ." Taako punctuates this with sharp knuckle raps. "Like don't get me wrong, glad to have you as my number two, but how did any of what happened add up in your mind to 'Taako's a reliable and trustworthy investment'?"

"Gut feeling," says Ren. "You did win my stomach over first, after all."

Taako snorts. But before he can think of a sufficiently cutting return, someone in the peanut gallery -- one of the new Bureau hires, he thinks -- pipes up with a question. "So wait, Ren, you're saying you remembered  _ all _ of the loops afterward?" 

And because it's Ren, she keeps that smile in place as she says, "After the bubble came down, sure." She taps her chin. "You know it's funny, though? Before the boys showed up, everything played out pretty much the same, over and over again. So I remember those first couple years of being stuck real clear, but all the different chats I had with Taako, say? Well, they get mixed up a little."

A different fucking stranger joins in from their seat on the sideboard. "Do you remember dying all those times?" 

"Oh. Well." Ren's cheer falters a moment before she hitches it back on again. "Well, yes but. It all happened pretty quick for most of them."

"Woof, yeah, guess you lucked out there," Taako says. His full attention on Ren, as if no one had interrupted. "Can't speak for Mags and Merle but I was NOT a fan of the whole 'crushed and burned alive' thing. That shit got old real fast, lemme tell ya."

The new hire makes a pained noise of sympathy. Asks, "Was it as bad as the volcano?"

Taako's ears twitch. "The what now?"

"The volcano in cycle eighty-five," she says. "When you couldn't get back to the Starblaster in time."

“Oh sure, that whole so-and-so," Taako says, somehow managing to keep his face semi-normal despite the bottom dropping out of his stomach.

And before he can come up with a segue into literally any other topic, some other unbelievable asshole whom he has never spoken to in his entire fucking life asks, "Did you ever go back and read the eulogy Lucretia wrote?"

Nope. Nope nope nope, no fuckin’ thank you. "Yeah, no, guess I haven't gotten around to it," Taako says as he swings his legs around and scootches off the table. Gets to his feet. "Hey, listen, Ren, gonna go see about that punch."

"Grab me a cup!" she says. And he knows her well enough, now, to hear the implied  _ Don't you dare ditch me in here. _

"Sure thing!" he calls over his shoulder. And the dip of her brow suggests that she's received his own silent transmission of  _ Try and fucking stop me. _

At least a couple dozen more people have showed up since Taako and Ren holed up in the dining room. The hallway is a forest of Carey and Killian's enormous relatives, and the living room is jammed with people who could each soak up a full hour of Taako time. He puts on his best "Gotta go sorry" smile and flashes it generously as he slips through the crowd in the hall and out onto the porch.

Lup, thank  _ god _ , is just where he’d left her: draped across Barry’s lap on a hanging wooden swing, a beer bottle dangling from her fingers. She’s chatting with Carey and some person whose name Taako doesn’t know -- one of the former Seekers, he thinks. He can’t hear a word they’re saying over the music, which Lup had selected and then danced to for about twenty minutes before pronouncing her partying obligations met.

Taako leans into her line of sight, waves to get her attention, aims a finger gun at his head and pulls the trigger with a manic widening of his eyes. Lup laughs and levers herself up off of Barry and picks her away over to him -- lots of people are sitting on cushions on the floor.

“Hey, Koko,” she says and slings an arm around his shoulder. “You hit the wall, bud?”

“About an hour ago,” he says, and reaches up to squeeze her hand. She’s only been in this new body for a month or so, and if he’s honest, even a spectral lich sister was overwhelming. Having her right here beside him, warm and alive, has so far been impossible to get used to. “You kids hide out here the whole time?”

“Nah, Barry made me get him a beer like a half hour ago, the mooch.”

“You, uh...” Taako laughs, nervous for no good reason. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see...”

“Lucy’s not here,” Lup says, a little clipped.

Taako rolls his eyes. “No. Jesus, Lulu, not...” He sighs. “You know, that guy. The guy.”

“Who, Bradson?”

“Say it louder, I don’t think they heard you in the kitchen.”

Lup reaches up with the arm around his shoulders to pinch his cheek. “One, I’ve never met him. Two, there are like a million orcs at this party.”

Taako’s not even sure why he’s asking this, but he’s already put one foot in it so. “He’s a little shorter than Killian. Got a dark brown ponytail like all the way down his back. Glasses. Pretty built. Probably wearing a plaid flannel shirt.”

She snorts. “So he’s like what, some kinda jock nerd?”

A little swell of fondness at that. “Yeah basically.”

Lup kisses his cheek and steps away to go and fetch her stuff, which she’d thrown in a pile in the corner. “I dunno, bud, I mean he could be here but I haven’t seen him. Why?”

“No reason, it’s fine.” Lup shoots him a look over her shoulder as she picks up her jacket. “Seriously it’s fine!”

Some measure of mercy must remain in Lup’s heart, because she waits until she’s standing right next to him again before she says, “You horny for that action?”

Taako winces. “C’mon, Lup, don’t...”

She leans in closer with a wolfish grin. “You wanna hit that stack of bricks?”

“Hey.” Taako catches her hand again and holds it for a moment. Says, quietly, “Don’t.”

Lup squeezes his fingers. “So hows about we go to that diner you like, huh? Get you some pancakes.” Barry has been saying his goodbyes to Carey, and Lup gestures for him to come over. “I’ll ping Krav and let him know we’re heading out, okay?”

Taako quirks a corner of his mouth. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“Great, hang on a sec.” Her eyes get the telltale faraway look of silent colleague communing— part of the whole Reaper gig, and another thing Taako hasn’t really gotten used to. A moment later they snap back into focus and she says, frowning a little, “He wants me to ask you if it’s hot in here?”

“Oh.” A traitor blush rises on Taako’s cheeks. “Uh, sure I guess. I mean, yeah it is? Yes.” He swallows. “Tell him yes.” 

“Oooooooohkay.” Another glazed moment, then, “He says he’ll meet us at the diner also what the hell was that?”

He laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing?”

“Yeah that’s not gonna fly.”

“Later,” he promises. “Post-pancakes, you can swoop in and take advantage of my food coma.”

“Don’t think I’ll forget,” Lup says. Points at her eyes with two fingers and then swings them around toward him in the universal gesture of surveillance.

The three of them hop down the porch steps and stride out into the yard. Unlike Kravitz and his pocket knife, Lup prefers the drama of the standard issue object, and conjures a scythe out of the air. And Taako chances one last look behind him to scan the lit windows for something familiar — for Kravitz, he tells himself, and for whoever Kravitz is talking to — before he sighs and shakes it off and follows his sister through the window she’s sliced in the world.

*

Brad and the handsome greenhouse stranger are still in separate chairs, but that distance is beginning to feel like a formality. The man is perched at the edge of his seat, his body canted forward, his chin resting on one hand as he listens. The borrowed guitar is back in its case and set aside in the corner. “That depends on what you mean by ‘embarrassing,’” Brad is saying in an intentional rumble. “I’m not ashamed of how I spend my time.”

The man laughs and waves this off. “All right then, pastimes which, if explained in mixed company, would prompt at least one person to make an excuse to be elsewhere.”

“Ah, so you mean dull old man hobbies,” Brad says. He smiles and crosses his legs, ankle resting on knee. “I brew my own beer and cider.”

“Is it any good?”

“I’d say it is, yes.”

The man’s smile widens. “Then it doesn’t qualify. Too useful.”

Brad arches an eyebrow. “You’re the arbiter of what counts as an embarrassing hobby?”

“Yes, and your first attempt has been dismissed.” The man’s hand drifts forward to rest on Brad’s knee, feather-light but unmistakable. “More, please,” he says, playful and honeyed. 

Brad supposes he should have asked the man’s name, but the moment for that question has long since passed, and besides, it doesn’t much matter just now. It’s only the two of them after all, here in this warm quiet corner. Ignored by the crowd beyond the silencing spell which Brad hummed into existence about an hour ago. Two strangers and a cocoon of green things, soft low voices and a hand on his leg.

“Hmm.” Brad reaches for the whiskey bottle, now nearly empty, and takes a thoughtful swallow. “I collect stamps.”

“Yes!” The man claps both hands together, then presses his steepled fingers to his mouth. “Perfect, ideal, continue.”

Brad lays an arm across his shin, the hand dangling. “I grew up in a small village. Hardly ever went further from home than the nearest town,” he says. “I had relatives who’d travel for work, or war. The usual things. They sent me cards and letters from the road. My older sister showed me how to steam off the postage and I made a little book to put them in.” He smiles. “I haven’t added much to my collection since college, but every once in a while I’ll come across something interesting.”

“Why stamps?” the man asks. Still leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he reaches over to take gentle hold of Brad’s fingers. An easy movement, as if they’ve done this a hundred times. As if Brad’s pulse isn’t hammering in his ears at this small slight thing, this contact that’s nothing at all and yet, also, the most intimate he’s been with someone in half of a year. “What about them catches your fancy?”

“They’re dense little artifacts,” Brad says, careful to affect unconcern. Holding the man’s golden eyes with his, instead of watching the slow sweep of a thumb across his knuckles. “There’s a great deal of history and politics and culture baked into a stamp and its postmark. What iconography was chosen, how was it printed and on what type of paper, how long was it in production, how far did it travel, where was it sent?” 

“Points for bookishness and genuine charm,” the man says. Brad can feel soft fingers pressed up under his palm.

“And yourself?” Brad asks. “Are you always chasing down old folk songs at parties, or did I just get lucky?”

The man laughs softly. “Oh, that’s only a way to pass the time. When I’m feeling more thoroughly dedicated to foolishness, I translate modern texts into archaic languages. The greater the mismatch between tongue and topic, the better.”

Brad smiles, lips curling around his tusks. “For example?”

“My most recent project involves a dialect spoken by an isolated mountain village of halfing vegetarian pacifists, which I picked up for....well, you know, professional reasons.” He laughs again and rolls his eyes a little, maybe at the idea of professionalism. Casual and comfortable, unconcerned. Thumb skimming back and forth. “At the moment, I’m using it to translate a cookbook for cattle ranchers. The key is to forbid all loanwords, that’s what keeps things interesting.”

Brad chuckles. “And you just happen to know a halfling vegetarian pacifist in need of beef recipes?”

“Oh no, I’m very careful to make certain all of my translations are entirely useless,” the man says, “dead languages only, _ thank you _ .” 

Brad curls his hand closed around the man’s fingers. “You’re very strange,” he rumbles.

The man’s grin goes a little crooked. “You’ll find I’m unmatched when it comes to endearing eccentricities.”

“Anything else of note?”

“Not that you get to find out about this evening,” the man says. “I have to leave some mysteries intact for the second date.”

This is going well, Brad knows. It’s going  _ so _ well, and the swirl of whiskey and desire has left him a little dizzy. It’s difficult to school his voice, his face; to do anything other than grin and laugh out loud from relief. “Was this a date, then?” he asks, miraculously even.

The man tilts his head to one side. “I rather think it evolved into one, don’t you?”

Brad imagines them together on the floor of this room, this man laid out beneath him on the use-smoothed brick; imagines fingers pushed up into his hair, that beautiful mouth on his neck, or sucking on his fingers, or stretched around his... 

Brad licks his lips and says, graveled, “I suppose so.”

The man levers himself to his feet, far more gracefully than should be possible after so much whiskey. He smiles, his white teeth catching the moonlight. They’re still holding each other’s hands, and now he tugs on Brad’s arm. A clear request, and one Brad is happy to go along with, although his head swims a little as he stands.

Gods, this man is so much smaller; so much  _ shorter _ , his face level with Brad’s chest. Grinning up at Brad with an obvious hunger that shivers up the back of his neck. “I’ve got to go,” the man says. “The rest of my party is waiting on me, I’m afraid.” He lays a hand on Brad’s sternum. “Might I borrow your Stone of Farspeech?”

Both of them reach into the pockets of their trousers, but whereas Brad pulls out his Stone, the man produces a copper coin. “I left mine back at the flat,” he says, apologetic, “But I’ve found this will do in a pinch.” He touches Brad’s Stone with his index finger and speaks the word of attunement; when he lifts his finger again, a ball of blue light clings to the tip. He moves it over to the coin, murmurs an unfamiliar word of power, and the coin glows and fades. The man flips it with his thumb, satisfied, before tucking it back into his pocket.

“Good, that’s sorted.” The man smiles up at him. “All that’s left is for you to kiss me.”

It takes all of Brad’s considerable self-control not to do so immediately. Instead he asks, serious but not severe, “What would your partner have to say about that?”

The man’s eyes crinkle. “He’d say it’s my job to establish compatible chemistry.”

“Mm.” Gods, his heart is racing. “Very practical.”

“In this one regard I’m downright utilitarian,” the man says. His hand slides up Brad’s chest to hook around his neck, thumb tucked up behind Brad’s ear. “Now are you going to?” he murmurs. “Or will you send me trotting off ignorant as well as unsatisfied?”

Brad rests a hand on the man’s hip. “Unsatisfied.”

The man chuckles, rich with intent. “Certain things do have to wait.”

There are many clever things that Brad could say here; teasing chocolate words to draw this moment out. But he finds he doesn’t want to treat this like a game, or like some playful pursuit. He doesn’t want to pretend at unconcern. He doesn’t want to hold any part of this at a distance.

Brad cups the man’s jaw in his hand, and dips his head. The man’s lips are warm and impossibly soft. He sighs against Brad’s mouth as the kiss deepens, wet and electric, their bodies pressed up tight together, Brad’s hand at the small of his back. 

“Yes,” the man says once they’ve broken apart. 

“Have I passed, then?”

A breathy laugh, and the man says, “I’ll talk things over with my partner tonight.” He runs the pad of his thumb along the back of Brad’s ear. “And I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Brad inhales through his nose; bows his head and presses his lips to the man’s hairline. “Good,” is all he manages to say.

The man goes up on tiptoes to peck Brad on the cheek. Then he pulls away, not hiding his reluctance. Says, “Goodnight,” and opens the glass door, and slips through Brad’s spell and out into what’s left of the party beyond it. Leaving Brad in the little room with a guitar, the dregs of a bottle of whiskey, and a buzzing hopeful lightness in his chest.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kravitz recounts a pleasant evening. Brad gets a phone call. Taako looks for a place in the overlap.

Lup slaps both hands down on the table with a whoop of delighted laughter, rattling the silverware. "Holy  _ shit_, Krav's picking up a fuck buddy?"

"Potential fuck buddy," Taako says at a pointedly lower volume. The only other people in this diner are drunks way too far into their own bad decisions for eavesdropping, but still. "The rule is flirting and makeouts only, then he's gotta report back."

"So y'all are just cruising for dudes at a housewarming party?" She whistles. "I mean I knew you horny but  _ damn_, Koko, you  _ horny_!"

Taako winces and covers his face with his hands. "Please please please do not use my childhood nickname and 'horny' in the same sentence oh my god." 

"That's very clever to have worked out a...I guess a code phrase?" Barry says, cheerfully interested. As if they’re discussing a novel new way to open a jam jar and not his brother-in-law's sex life. "Saves you having to do the whole...you know, 'can I talk to you a second over here' thing. Subtle."

Lup snorts. "Babe, come on, not a single fucking thing about Krav is subtle."

"Yeah that’s fair," Taako says. He sighs and emerges from behind his hands, picking up his fork. He ordered enough pancakes and sausages to feed three elves his size, but he’s pretty sure that if he stays committed he can make a good showing.

"So how does this work exactly?" Barry asks. "Will Kravitz bring him by?”

Lup’s grin widens. “Oh yeah, oh wow yeah, do we get to meet him? Can I vet him?” She lays a hand over her heart, playing at solemn. “I’m an excellent judge of character.”

“I dunno,” Taako says. Grimaces and adds, “Okay to be clear, no you absolutely cannot interview our threesome candidate, and no, I have no idea what Krav’s gonna do, we haven’t...” He pokes at his food. “Listen, we haven’t actually done this before.”

“Oh  _ really_,” Lup says, drawing out the vowels.

Taako shoves a huge-ass bite of pancakes into his mouth so he has an excuse not to say anything for the time it takes to chew.

It's not that he hadn't meant it when he'd told Krav he was open to bringing in a third. They’d talked about it a few times after sex, and finally sat down and had a real conversation where they both laid out where they were coming from. Taako had spent that hour wishing he was about three hundred percent more drunk, but he’d done it, and it turned out they were on pretty much the same page. Now that his brain's been put back together, Taako knows that he's deffo been involved in some pretty wild group sex situations, and they're fun when they're done right -- right mood, right guys, right time in whatever relationship he's already involved with. Krav's not really the jealous type, and Taako's up for whatever as long as he's not being left out.

He'd just figured that they'd meet someone together. That's what the whole code phrase had been for, really, a way to ask "Hey, can we make a move on this guy?" in semi-public. But he hadn't actually seriously expected to ever use it, like. Obviously if he and Krav hooked up with a third, it'd be some guy he already knew, at least a little -- there's no way in hell he's gonna fuck a rando these days. Obviously he and Krav would pick out a likely candidate, co-conspire beforehand to corner whoever it was, then overwhelm him with their combined sex appeal until he gave in and let them play with him for a few hours.

Jesus. Not so obvious after all.

“We’ve only been dating for six months,” Taako mutters, “not everyone’s had fifty years to do weird shit, get off my dick.”

“You’ll catch up,” Barry says, mild, and Lup snickers as she leans in to smooch him loudly on the cheek. Which Taako might have complained about before Everything? But now...yeah, if they wanna PDA they’ve fuckin’ earned it.

The hostess greets someone behind him, and Taako’s heart jumps a little when Kravitz’s voice replies, “I see my party over there, thank you.” 

“Hey, handsome,” Taako says as Kravitz slides into the booth next to him. He finds Kravitz’s hand under the table and squeezes it hard. “How’d it go? With ah...you know-”

"Who's the guy?" Lup asks, physically leaning across the table toward them. "C'mon, cough up the deets."

Kravitz’s eyes widen a bit. He looks over at Taako with a brow arched, and Taako says, “Yeah sorry, I kinda...mostly told them.”

“Ah.” For the briefest of moments Kravitz looks almost as embarrassed as any normal person would in this situation: being grilled about his sex life in public by a coworker who’s also his boyfriend’s sister. He presses together, a wrinkle between his brows. Then he laughs, shrugs it off with apparent effortlessness and says, “In that case, I had a lovely evening and I absolutely  think we should shag him.” Kravitz leans over, and he and Taako share a quick, chaste kiss. “If you approve.”

“Okay well maybe start by telling me who it is you wanna watch me fuck?” Taako says, which is  _ finally _ enough to get Lup to pinken around the ears a little.

“I...may have forgotten to ask his name,” Kravitz says, prompting a snicker from Lup and a loud groan from Taako, “but!  _ But_! I got his attunement. And he was wearing a bracer, so he must be a Bureau employee.”

“Sure, fine, is he hot?” Lup asks. She reaches across the table to take hold of Kravitz’s shoulder. “Is he  _ dreamy _ ?”

“Oh very much so,” Kravitz says, “although if I’m being honest, he’s rather more to my own taste than Taako’s. He’s a musician.  _ Quite _ handsome. Tall, broad shouldered. Longer hair than I might normally prefer but he takes proper care of it at least, wears it in a nice tidy queue. Dry as dust but very funny.” One corner of his mouth quirks up. “Excellent kisser.”

Taako chuckles. “As good as me?”

Kravitz’s smile widens. “Impossible.”

“Gross,” Lup says with gentle affection. “What else? Is he an elf, a human, what?”

“An orc, actually,” Kravitz says. And Taako is just beginning to experience a slow-motion dawn of comprehension when Lup makes a noise  _ far _ beyond acceptable indoor volume, and leans in even further across the table, and asks, “Does he have glasses? Was he wearing a plaid shirt?”

Kravitz’s smile falters as the bottom drops out of Taako’s stomach. “Yes, actually, do you know him?”

“Holy shit,” Lup says in a sort of whispery scream. She mimes clawing at her face, her expression one of horrified glee. “Holy shit holy shit I wasn’t even serious I was just gonna give Koko a hard time holy  _ shit_!” 

Kravitz’s head swivels back toward Taako, the smile now gone a bit desperate. “I’m afraid I’ve been left out of the loop, dear.”

“You, ah...” Taako licks his lips; manages a ghost of a chuckle. “Babe, I think you just met my ex.”

“Pardon?” 

“I think you just kissed Brad Fucking Bradson on the mouth.” Taako pushes a hand back through his hair. “What the actual fuck.”

“Did he know who you were?” Barry asks helpfully. “Did you introduce yourself at all?”

“I...” Kravitz closes his mouth; looks between the three of them, bewildered. “I haven’t the faintest. I only assumed...well, it isn’t as if Taako and I have been especially subtle, and the press-”

“He doesn’t read that shit, Krav,” Taako says, “did you mention my  _ name _ ? Did he?”

“....No?”

“Oh my god.” Taako drops his head into his hands, his elbows on the table to either side of his plate. “Oh my  _ god _ I’m in hell.”

“Perhaps there’s more than one bespectacled ponytailed orc at the Bureau,” Kravitz offers, unconvincingly hopeful. “You haven’t worked there in months and-”

“Yeah okay no we are not having this conversation in a diner.” Silverware rattles as Taako pushes the wreckage of his pancakes aside. “Lup, Barry, wrap things up here so I can go home and lose the rest of my shit?” 

Lup gives him a confident thumbs up, but Kravitz splutters, “I’m...love, I go on call in an hour-”

“We’ll cover you,” Barry says, serene. “Take your time! Opening up a relationship can be very rewarding, but communication is key.”

“Yeah great thanks.” Taako surges up off the bench, grabs his coat, and aims himself at the door of the diner. He’s dimly aware of Kravitz saying goodbye behind him, but panicked bile is churning in his stomach, burning up the back of his throat, and he physically cannot stand being in a room with so many other people, so many strangers, in this particular fucking moment. 

The cold night air helps a little, harsh and clarifying. He stands on the curb with his hands shoved into his pockets, watching his own clouded breath, until Kravitz comes up beside him. 

Kravitz hooks an arm through the crook of Taako’s elbow and leans in close. “I love you,” he says, unusually serious.

Taako manages a thin little chuckle, barely more than a breath. “Yeah, I know.” He sighs and squeezes Kravitz’s arm. “Babe, I _ know_. I love you, too.”

*

They don’t talk about it right away. Once Kravitz has deposited them back in their own living room, he kisses Taako firmly -- affirmingly -- and announces that he’s going to make them both some strong sweet tea. Taako slouches down the hall to their room to shuck off his fit-for-public trousers and shirt and jacket, splash some water on his face and pull on his robe. He drags the duvet off of their bed to wrap around his shoulders, the edge trailing behind him as he pads back out to the living room. He makes a sort of nest for himself on the couch, his feet tucked up, only his head sticking out of the pile of soft fabric.

Soon enough, Kravitz emerges from the kitchen with two steaming mugs in hand. Taako accepts his with a murmur of thanks, then opens up one side of his blanket shell such that Kravitz can snuggle in beside him. Kravitz’s body is pleasantly warm, which Taako enjoys for a few uncomplicated seconds before remembering: this is probably the second time tonight Krav’s made himself all toasty. Which is, at last, too much for Taako to bear in silence, and he blurts out a “What the  _ fuck, _ ” before he can stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” Kravitz moans, agonized. Under some other circumstance all of this would be adorable -- Kravitz isn’t often caught so completely flat-footed. “If I’d had  _ any _ idea I would never have allowed things to go so far.”

“It’s fine,” Taako says quietly. Then, when he sees a protest forming on Kravitz’s lips, “No really, listen, I’m not angry it’s just... it’s a lot,” he finishes, lamely. He takes a sip of his tea. “This is good, thanks.”

“I told him that I’d call tomorrow,” Kravitz says. “I’ll explain the misunderstanding, you needn’t do anything. This isn’t your mess to sort out.”

“Mm.” Taako drops his head sideways onto Kravitz’s shoulder. “Maybe it wasn’t him.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“Some other ponytail orc, like you said.” Taako isn’t sure why he’s saying this, or whether he even wants it to be true. “Maybe you smooched a rando after all.”

“Perhaps.”

“He mention beer?”

Kravitz chuckles. “He mentioned that he brews it.”

“Shit.” Taako closes his eyes with a wince, even as his traitor heart quickens. Even as he imagines a broad green hand on Kravitz’s arm, a wry smile curled around tusks. “That fucking nerd.”

“A fair description.”

It’s difficult to drink tea with his head mostly horizontal, but Taako doesn't want to move. He manages an awkward sip from the corner of his mouth. “So did you just...like, walk up to him and ask about his gym routine?”

“He found me in the greenhouse,” Kravitz says, a little chagrined. “I may have been on something of an event sabbatical.”

“You’re the worst,” Taako grumbles. Under the blankets, his free arm snakes around Kravitz’s waist. “I can’t believe you hid like a coward while my adoring public ate me alive.”

“I didn’t intend to stay there long,” Kravitz says. “Not originally.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’d meant to distract myself a bit and then go and find you. But, ah...” Taako feels a sigh against his hair. “Well. The shape and specifics of my distraction weren’t quite what I’d expected.”

Taako looks down at the mug in his hand; considers what exactly he wants to ask, which details he wants to know. Already he’s imagining the two of them together, tucked away in that glassed-in corner, moonlit between the leaves. He wonders what Brad was wearing. A shirt he’s seen before? A belt that his hands have tugged open? Trousers he’s pressed his face against? Shoes he’s tripped over when going to use the bathroom in the middle of the night? 

He asks, finally, “What did you talk about?”

“Oh, the usual sorts of things.” A soft laugh, warm on Taako’s scalp. “Usual for  _ me_. I suspect we lost the better part of an hour to Dwarven sea shanties. He knew several I wasn’t familiar with, and he has a lovely voice.”

“He  _ sang_?”

“A bit. I’d borrowed one of Carey’s guitars.”

Taako snorts. “You mean you snuck around upstairs until you found one.”

“If you want to split hairs.”

“You’re awful,” Taako murmurs, affectionate, and pushes himself up far enough to kiss Kravitz’s cheek. Still anxious, still feeling raw, but the edges aren’t quite as sharp. “All right fine, so you had a singalong, what else?”

“We described our various pastimes,” Kravitz says. “He told me about his tenure with a local theater company in high school, apparently he was quite popular as a leading man. They cast him as Gallighan every year until he left for University.”

Taako frowns. He hasn’t really finished untangling his memories of a hundred worlds’ worth of pop culture. “Wait, isn’t that a musical?”

“ _ Curls of sage smoke on the wind, your hair curled on my pillow, smelling sweet, smelling of home, home where you are, where the wild sage grows_.” Kravitz sings these phrases in his soft rounded tenor, and Taako vaguely recognizes the tune from some show he’d seen years ago on the road, back when he slept in a wagon and drank with actors around their campfires. He imagines Brad on a rough wooden stage, dressed in some ridiculous velvet jacket with gold braid and embroidered cuffs, and tries to remember if he’s ever heard Brad sing. Humming yes, plenty of times, magical and mundane both. But singing...

He sifts through months of idling in Brad’s apartment; lands, at last, on a lazy Sunday morning, splayed diagonally across the bed, all tangled in the sheets. Listening as Brad’s warm baritone drifts in from the bathroom, fragments of lyric only barely audible over the hiss of water. Something cheerful and Orcish that soothed him back to sleep.

Taako sits up properly again; stares down into his mug and says, “You like him.”

“Well.” Kravitz’s tone is gentle. Cautious. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation otherwise.”

“No, I mean...” Taako rubs the ceramic with his fingertips. “You  _ like _ him. Not just in a hook-up way.”

Kravitz doesn’t reply for some time, long enough that Taako’s gut begins to twist with real worry again. At last, he murmurs, “He’s not what I would have expected.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“Based on what you told me, I had imagined someone...well, not cold precisely, but reserved. Distant?” Taako glances over at Kravitz, then, and sees that he’s smiling. “Not a charming stamp collector who visits his mother on holidays.”

“ _Stamp collector_?” Taako splutters. “You’re making that up. That cannot possibly be a real thing, you’re just fucking with me.”

Kravitz’s grin widens. “You didn’t know?”

“Wow. Jeezy creezy, I guess not.” Taako laughs again, but it comes out hollow and mirthless. “Guess I didn’t really know fuck-all.” 

“Taako...”

“It’s fine.” He leans over to put the mug down on the coffee table and burrows down deeper into the blankets, his head pillowed on Kravitz’s chest. He can hear Kravitz’s heartbeat, a steady thrum that’s entirely pointless, as far as he knows. “Brad wasn’t cold,” he says, “not really. Just...I dunno. Apart.” He chews on his lip.

It’s good, this thing he has -- this new life the two of them are making together. He’s been a chef, a wizard, an artificer, and all have taught him not to fuck with something that’s working. A part of him is desperate to leave well enough alone.

Taako slips his other arm around Kravitz’s ribs. “He liked you?”

“One can’t be certain of these things, but...” Kravitz kisses his forehead. “I was given that impression, yes.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Taako says, and squeezes Kravitz hard enough to win a little  _ wuff _ of breath. “You’re super fucking likeable.”

“You may be biased in this area.”

“Naw,” Taako says. It’s odd, to be so full to bursting with a million things he wants to say that it’s paralyzing, like it’s all so wedged into his throat that nothing can get through. It’s not a feeling that he’s used to and he doesn’t much enjoy it. He wishes he could see which thread to pull to start the whole thing untangling.

He listens to Kravitz’s heartbeat; to the rasp of Kravitz’s breath. He asks, at last, “What do you wanna do?”

“About Brad?”

“Yeah.”

“I rather thought that was more your call to make than mine,” Kravitz says. “And it doesn’t seem much of a choice, given what you said before.”

“What  _ I _ said?”

“Our first night together.” Kravitz lifts a hand to gently brush the hair from Taako’s brow and tuck it behind his ears. “I did mention that you might continue on with him, if you’ll recall. An option you rather forcefully rejected.”

“Mm.” Taako pushes his fingers up under the hem of Kravitz’s shirt, seeking the comfort of warm skin. Thinks about his hand on Brad’s stomach. Thinks about his mouth on Brad’s chest. Thinks and remembers and pulls Kravitz tighter, not sure whether to fight this off or lean in. Not sure at all what he’s supposed to do, now that he’s been cornered into taking stock of the shape of things -- what’s changed and what hasn’t, not at all. Not at  _ all_, however long it’s been.

“Taako,” Kravitz murmurs. “I would remind you that while I  _ am _ exceptionally empathetic, I cannot actually read minds, yours or otherwise.”

Taako turns his face further into Kravitz’s chest. “Everything I’m thinking is stupid,” he says, muffled.

“How about you say it regardless and then we’ll sift out the chaff together.”

He breathes in deep of Kravitz’s smell, ozone and rain-spattered dirt. Remembers burying his nose into curls of dark chest hair, all sweat and soap, the two of them together in messy undignified mortality. He tries to imagine these moments overlapping, how it would feel to be both those versions of himself at once: the Taako who is here with Kravitz, in the apartment they found and bought together, but also the Taako who lay aching and bruised and exhausted with his head pillowed on Brad’s lap, soothed back into normalcy by the fingers softly stroking his hair.   

He murmurs, “You wanna try this.”

“I like him very much,” Kravitz says, “I won’t pretend otherwise.” His arm circles Taako’s shoulders, a reassuring weight. “But I  _ love _ you. Whatever you need, however you’re most comfortable, that’s what we’ll do. There are other bardic orcs in the world.”

Taako groans and pulls the duvet up over his head. “Ugh, no that’s the thing! That’s the fucking  _ thing_, I don’t  _ want _ some other orc!”

“I see,” Kravitz says, likely trying for neutral, but Taako can hear the smile in his voice.

“Listen....” 

Kravitz carefully, insistently peels the blankets away from Taako’s face. He leans downs and kisses Taako’s brow. “I’m listening.”

Taako finally meets his eyes, then. Says, quietly, “I wanna do this, like... like kinda bad.” He swallows. “Kinda really bad, maybe.”

Kravitz kisses him again, at the corner of his eye. “And by ‘this’ you mean you want to court him together.”

“I’m gonna throw you out a window,” Taako grumbles, and scrunches down into a ball with his cheek against Kravitz’s sternum. “I’m gonna cast fireball and burn down this entire building.”

Kravitz rests his chin on the top of Taako’s head. “That’s a yes, then.”

“This is so stupid,” Taako whispers. “This has to be the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever done and that...babe, that is  _ saying  _ something.”

“He is quite unreasonably handsome,” Kravitz says, gently teasing. “No jury would convict us.”

It’s an odd thing for someone as supernaturally attractive as Kravitz to say, but honestly he has a point. Brad doesn’t have improbably flawless skin, or hair that always falls in a perfect shining spill along his temple, or a dazzling smile of immaculate white teeth. Brad’s just a guy. Just an orc who has to use conditioner and whose breath can be a little off in the morning. But even thinking about that -- Brad’s face squashed against a pillow, the slow rise and fall of his shoulder, swirls of dark hair on the sheets -- pushes the air out of Taako’s lungs. 

“He’s gonna say ‘no’ anyway,” Taako mutters. 

“He may.”

“This is all just a dumb horny thought experiment.”

“Better to ask, I think,” Kravitz says. “At worst, our egos will be bruised a bit. And at best...”

Taako can’t even think about what the “best” might be, not now. Not so late at night, not after he’s been so badly upended. He asks, “You said you’d call tomorrow?”

“I did.”

“All right,” Taako murmurs. “I guess we’ll see if this all still sounds like a good idea in the morning.”

*

Between the whiskey and the long walk home, Brad has no trouble falling asleep. He strips down to his boxers and pulls on a ratty tee shirt and collapses into bed, too tired to even jerk off, much as he’d like to after the night he’s had. 

He makes up for it in the morning, though; wakes from dreams of being ridden by the greenhouse stranger, and allows himself a luxurious wank in the shower, imagining those slim graceful hands on his dick, that voice crying out in pleasure. It’s the least complicated fantasy he’s had in ages, and it leaves him in an excellent mood, despite the edge of nervousness. He has no way of contacting this person without grilling Carey and Killian about their guest list, which he’d really rather not do, but. The man said he’d call today, and today has barely started. No point in borrowing trouble.

It’s a gorgeous day, blue sky and bright sun, warm enough for short sleeves if you work up a bit of a sweat. Which he’d like to, come to think of it. He wants to be outside and moving, to channel this hopeful energy into something other than vibrating at his desk. So he changes into track pants, digs his running shoes out of the closet, twists his hair up into a knot, tucks his Stone into a pocket, and sets off in a jog down the corridor.

Sundays at the Bureau used to mean crowds and noise, everyone piling into the quad or the cafeteria, depending on the weather. Picnics and football on the grass, or board games on the long dining hall tables. These days, unless someone’s project’s on fire, the campus is mostly empty on weekends, only Brad and Lucretia and a handful of support staff, maybe some new hire pulling extra hours. And so Brad is alone in the big open courtyard, the crunch of his shoes on the gravel pathways echoing between the domes, his lungs burning pleasantly in the cold morning air.

He hasn’t been getting out much lately, but Charity mentioned a new restaurant has opened just down the road. Nothing too fancy, but the food is good, she said. Friendly staff, nice atmosphere. He could ask the man to meet him there, maybe. They could have dinner, a couple glasses of wine. If the weather’s fair, they could take a walk along the riverbank. And if things go well, they could go head up to Brad’s apartment for coffee. Maybe other things, too, but if not that’s fine. He’s not in a rush, and honestly just the company will be nice. A new person to talk to.

He’s on his fourth lap around the quad when his pocket chimes. He jogs to a stop under the branches of a gingko tree, still hanging onto the last of its buttery yellow leaves, and leans back against the trunk. He takes a deliberate, calming breath as he pulls out his Stone and activates the spell with his thumb. “Hello,” he says, already smiling. 

The first word is like a cold splash of water. “Hey. Hey, it’s ah...” A nervous laugh which Brad can perfectly imagine, can practically close his eyes and see. “It’s me. Sorry, it’s Taako.”

“Taako,” Brad says, and he’s furious at how immediately his own body has reacted. How his pulse has already quickened with adrenaline and a terrible curiosity. He can’t imagine a single good reason why Taako would be calling him at all, let alone this morning. He can’t actually ever remember Taako calling his personal Stone. The one at the office from time to time, yes, but even that only when cornered into it.

Gods, this is ridiculous. “How can I help you?” he asks, bland.

“Oh. Uh... yeah, so...” Another stilted chuckle. “Wow, this is way fucking harder than I thought it was gonna be, how do you even say shit like this...”

Brad’s chest is winding up with every breath, possibilities flickering through his head. A sudden death, or paperwork, or a long-missing object that might be under his bed. Perhaps someone had seen him in the dining room last night, watching Taako speak. He asks, mouth dry, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Taako says. “Shit, no, nothing’s wrong. Or... I mean, fuck I don’t know, maybe you’ll think it is.” 

“I have things to do today,” Brad says. Harsher than he’d like, but this is becoming unbearable.

“Look, I know, just… listen, Brad...” Another agonizing pause.

The quad is too quiet. Brad can hear every detail of Taako’s breathing, the too-familiar text of it, plain as words. Taako is nervous and excited. Taako is terrified to continue but also very much wants to; is desperate to, maybe. And Brad is also desperate, now, to be out the other side of this, of whatever it is Taako called to tell him.

“I’m the partner,” Taako says.

“I don’t understand,” Brad says, although he’s beginning to, an evening of details falling together in the crisp morning sunlight.

“Last night at the party, you were talking to a guy, right? And he said he had a partner.” An audible exhale. “I’m the partner.”

“I see,” Brad says, starched and formal. Glad that he’s alone out here, at least. That he doesn’t have to school his expression, too. “Well. Thank you for letting me know. Please pass on my apologies for the misunderstanding. Good-”

Taako interrupts in a panicked rush. “Nononowait! Wait, don’t hang up!”

“Is there something else I can help you with?”

“Jesus, Brad, come on. Don’t...” Taako sighs. “Listen, I’m trying to be cool about this, okay? Cut me a break.”

Brad has been standing here for several minutes, now, and the cold is starting to soak through his sweat-damp clothes, to prickle at his exposed skin. “I have apologized,” he says. “I will steer clear of your... business in the future. I’m not sure what else you want me to say.”

“No listen, you don’t get it, that’s not... I didn’t call to...” More tortured laughter. “Fuck it, okay, I just have to say this. Okay. Okay here I go.” Another pause. And then, all in a rush, “Krav really likes you, he wants to see you again, and I also...” He stumbles, takes a breath, starts again. “Me, too. I want that, too.”

Brad shivers a little; tells himself it’s just the cold. Says, “You want me to go on a date with your boyfriend.”

“Well... I mean yeah, but...” Taako falters for a moment. “Not just him.”

Brad wants to ask what that means, what  _ exactly_, but can’t think of any way to phrase it that won’t sound raw and desperate. There’s desire built into a question like that, and so much scope for foolishness; so many ways the old wounds he’s ignored could twist those words into the shape he wants from them. He wishes he could look at Taako’s face, the angle of his ears. “I see,” is all he manages.

“Listen, I know. I know just...” Another pause, and when Taako continues his voice is louder, as if he’s leaned in toward his Stone. “Brad, I’ve missed you,” he says, a quiet voice amplified by nearness to the spell. “I still really miss you.”

In books and in plays, when there are moments like this -- when a person has been told something they’ve long wanted to hear, when some secret shameful wish is realized -- the mood is overjoyed. Everyone smiles and cries with relief. They wrap their arms around each other, and everything is mended. 

Brad feels like his ribs have been pried open. Like the wind is blowing through him, stripping all his words away. 

He says, too roughly, “I don’t want to have this conversation over Stone.”

“Oh.” It’s bizarre to have Taako speak to him like this, all off-kilter nervousness, hesitation that has nothing to do with sex. Not directly. “Oh uh… sure, yeah of course.” Muffled indistinct voices, the Stone covered by a hand. “You can, ah… you know, come over here? I’ll make lunch. We have a big living room.”

What the hell? What the  _ hell _ ? “All right,” Brad says, a surrender to whatever this is, whatever’s he’s about to be dragged back into. “I don’t know where you live.”

“Goldcliff, but like, we’ll come get you.” Another papery laugh. “Wait, where do  _ you _ live?”

“The same as before,” Brad says, embarrassed heat rising in his cheeks. “I can take the train.” 

“Listen, trust me, it’ll be way easier if Krav just swings by.”

That makes no sense at all, but Brad is too frayed to argue. “When?”

“I mean...today, if you want. Kinda feel like it’ll be better to just. Get this whole deal figured out.”

Brad knows he shouldn’t do this today. He should sit in his apartment and listen to old records and properly think things through. He should give himself time to separate what he hopes will happen from what’s likely, what makes sense. He should examine the shape those hopes have taken and question whether they’re even what he really wants.

He should wait, but. “All right,” he says, because he can’t bear not to. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon.”

“Great,” Taako says, with an unexpected quiet earnestness that sits tight and taut in Brad’s chest. “Sure, that’s great.”

Once they’ve hung up, and the Stone has been dropped back into his pocket, Brad sets off jogging down the graveled path again. Desperate to be moving, to have something to do while he sifts back through what’s just been said, and what he’s agreed to. 

He never set foot in the Reclaimers’ apartment when Taako lived here at the Bureau; had never seen Taako in person out in the world until the party last night. This meeting today feels a little like an appointment with a stranger; a little like a blind date, and  _ gods_, that’s a thought that breaks him into a full run.

Taako isn’t a stranger. He’s a crooked smile across a table. He’s a warm familiar body in the dark. He’s a tangle of soft yellow hair in Brad’s lap while he does the weekend crossword.

It’s nearly eight in the morning. Four hours to finish this run, and shower, and pointlessly rehearse an imagined conversation.

What the hell is he even going to wear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brad and Taako and Kravitz spend an afternoon together.

It’s not that Kravitz hadn’t understood that Taako and Brad shared a complicated history, or that their time together had perhaps been more intense than Taako generally let on. Kravitz has made a hash of things plenty of times himself, and the signs were all there, obvious as thunder. But Taako had so thoroughly dodged any real discussion of what had happened with Brad, and of how he felt about it, that Kravitz hadn’t properly pieced together where the aftermath had settled. 

Kravitz did not enjoy the look on Taako’s face in the diner, nor did he relish the part he played in bringing it about. This had not been the fun kind of surprise for either of them, and while Kravitz knew better than to set his own guilty abasement as the focus of things -- had directed those energies into the time-honored ritual of making a pot of tea -- internally he was rather flogging himself for being a careless randy idiot. 

He expected to apologize, to make a plan for how exactly he would extricate them from this mess, and then toss the whole of it into the bin of bad decisions. He did not, at all, anticipate that Taako would suggest moving forward; that even after going to bed, the two of them would whisper for hours in the dark about the shape of Taako’s regret. Kravitz held Taako’s hand under the covers and listened to him sketch the outline of a final evening. Something about a spell, and having said too much, asked too much. A feeling of having hung himself out on a line. 

It seemed to help. The rubbed-raw quality of Taako’s voice gradually smoothed out, the anxious tension unwinding from his shoulders. And in the morning, the two of them had sat with their backs against the headboard while Taako struggled through a Stone call with Brad, Kravitz’s hand on his knee.

The minute the call ended, Taako launched himself from under the covers, tied a sarong around his waist, pulled a ratty sweater over his head, and announced he was going to make a quiche. And he has spent the hours since then oscillating between pastry and a deep clean of the apartment at large, the latter of which Kravitz finds outright alarming. He cannot recall ever seeing Taako so much as lift a broom, all tidying efforts normally reserved for dishes and laundry. This morning Taako has attacked their comfortable filth and clutter with a focus normally reserved for soufflés and sex. 

Kravitz sits with a cup of tea and a scone from the bakery on the corner, and watches Taako drag a chair around the living room, get up onto it with a rag in hand, and systematically dust the tops of every window frame. And Kravitz wonders how he’s going to salvage things if Brad decides he isn’t keen on their proposal. Probably with a holiday to someplace novel and indulgent, along with a great deal of wine.

At quarter to twelve, Taako emerges from the kitchen in a flour-covered apron -- his forearms dusted in white, a streak of what’s probably egg on one cheek -- and announces that he’s going to get changed. He never takes less than an hour to get ready for anything important, and yet he’s back in the living room ten minutes later, de-floured and eggless, dressed in wool trousers and a crisp white shirt. His hair is pulled into a loose bun which shows off the graceful sweep of his ears. And how pink they already are at the tips.

Kravitz knocks back the last of his tea and asks, smiling, “Ready?”

“No,” Taako says, and laughs. “Yeah, no, not even a little.”

Kravitz sets his cup aside, and gets to his feet, and crosses the room to where Taako is perched on the edge of the couch, straight-backed and rigid with nerves. He leans down to kiss Taako’s forehead. Says, “You’ll be fine, love.” Then he conjures up the switchblade sliver of his scythe and reaches out to carve a path through the boundary between planes.

It takes him a few moments to feel his way toward the lobby of the Bureau. An unfortunately timed resurrection of a minor warlord had kept him from the Landfall Gala, and so he has not actually visited this building since the end of its satellite days. He aims for what he is fairly certain is the center of the reception area and makes a cut large enough for an orc to walk through easily, as is only polite.

He emerges facing a bank of elevators, which is promising, and steps around the portal to survey the rest of the lobby. The room is domed, of course, with sunlight streaming through large windows in the vaulted ceiling. Several trees have been planted in the center of the smooth marble floor, their crisp green a cheerful contrast to the brittle landscape of early winter outdoors. There’s a long desk made of honey-colored wood, a large book for visitors to sign their names and detail their appointments. Opposite from the elevators are tall doors of iron and glass, each bearing the Bureau’s mark. One of them propped open, now, by a man who’s looking out at the road. An orc in tan slacks and a navy blue sweater, his long dark hair pulled into a queue.

“Afternoon,” Kravitz says, and Brad’s shoulders jump a little before he collects himself and turns around in the doorway. 

“Good afternoon,” Brad says, cautious. “I didn’t realize you were here in the building.”

Kravitz laughs. “Oh, I wasn’t,” he says, and gestures to the rend in the air before he remembers that it won’t be visible from where Brad is standing. “I don’t suppose anyone’s briefed you on the particulars of Reapers and how we gad about?”

“I have not had the particulars explained to me, no,” Brad says, still holding open the door. A telltale stiffness in his shoulders.

Kravitz smiles and waves him over and says, “My apologies, this has all been a bit of a muddle, hasn’t it?” Brad crosses the lobby, clearly confused but trying his best not to look it, which Kravitz finds intensely charming. “I can explain at length some other time, but simply put, we’re rather efficient about travel,” Kravitz says. Brad is beside him, now, and when he once again indicates the portal Brad’s eyes go round with startlement. 

“How...” Brad swallows, and when he tries again his voice has smoothed a fraction. “A brief primer would be appreciated.”

Kravitz holds up his small black knife. “I’m able to cut through the interplanar boundaries in a manner which allows me to cover great physical distances in very little time. You and I will pass through this doorway into the ethereal plane, at which point I’ll create a second doorway which leads directly to our destination, elsewhere in the material plane. Specifically, my flat in Goldcliff.” He smiles in a way he hopes is disarming. “Do you see?”

“Near enough.” Brad stands there for a moment and stares at the hole in the air, his fists curling and un-curling at his sides. “Kravitz,” he says, nearly a question.

Kravitz’s smile twitches up at one corner. “Brad.”

“I hope you don’t feel obligated to... humor... any of this,” Brad says. “It wasn’t my intent to corner you into an awkward arrangement.”

He dares a soft touch to Brad’s arm, fingertips on a woolen sleeve, and Brad’s eyes shift sideways to meet his own. “You’ll find I’m a difficult man to corner into anything I’m not happy to do,” Kravitz says. He goes up on tiptoes to press an impulsive kiss to Brad’s jaw. “Now. We had better chivvy along, or else Taako will think we’ve decided to try and get things sorted without him.”

Taako must have gotten to his feet at the first sign of a portal opening. He’s standing in front of the couch when Brad and Kravitz step through onto the worn carpet, his hands shoved into his pockets. Still visibly nervous, a piano wire set vibrating by the sight of Brad’s face. 

“Hey,” Taako says. Smiles a little, tight with uncertainty, and tucks a lock of hair back behind his ear. 

“Hello,” Brad says. As the tear between planes heals itself behind them, his eyes flicker around the room. “This is...very nice. Your apartment.” A pause. “Have you been here long?”

“Oh you know, a few months... just uh...” Taako rocks his weight between heel and toe. “Change of scenery.”

“Of course,” Brad rumbles. “Thank you for having me.”

Kravitz, who has no patience at all for this exact sort of slow-motion detente, claps his hands together. “Right, well! Talk first, I think, and then lunch? Lest we all shake ourselves apart from tension while we eat.”

And so they arrange themselves around the coffee table, where Taako has set out a pot of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Taako and Kravitz beside each other on the couch and Brad in the large upholstered armchair, which nevertheless is hardly wide enough for his shoulders. 

Kravitz allows them some margin for pointless small talk while he pours them all tea -- yes, some person named Charity is still working at the Bureau; no, Taako hasn’t yet filed the paperwork for his pension. But when the conversation turns to the literal weather, Kravitz finds he has reached his limit, and draws both their attention with a pointed click of cup on saucer. 

“Brad, you mentioned that you would prefer to discuss this potential arrangement in person,” Kravitz says, ruthlessly to the point. He smiles at Taako. “Shall we, then?”

“Oh.” Taako looks between them. He reaches for his cup and holds it in both hands without drinking. “Yeah, uh... sure. We should.” A deep breath. “So, listen. I uh... I think I pretty much... showed my cards here.”

“You want for me to date your boyfriend,” Brad says, flat in a way that must be intentional. A heavy pause, and then, “As well as yourself.” 

Taako exhales a soft _hah_ of a laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I guess I do.” 

“By which you mean a potentially romantic... relationship,” Brad says, the flatness beginning to falter. “To be clear.”

Taako looks down at the tea in his hands; a hot red flush has crept up the back of his neck, the tips of his ears burning. Utterly unlike the nervousness which Kravitz has coaxed him through before — some unfamiliar admixture of fear and hopeful mortification. “Yeah,” Taako says. “Yeah that’s ah... that’s it in a nutshell, I guess.”

“Why now?” Brad asks.

Taako’s head comes up at that, his ears gone flat. “What?”

“Why do you want to do this now,” Brad says, weight in every syllable, “when you didn’t before?”

“I...” Taako’s mouth snaps shut again. He looks to Kravitz for help, but Kravitz knows better than to step in front of this particular train, and only offers a reassuring squeeze of Taako’s leg. Which leaves Taako to turn to face Brad again, obviously at a loss. “I don’t get it, we’ve never... we didn’t ever talk about this. Like that’s the point.”

“ _You_ didn’t,” Brad says, with just an hint of... not accusation, but something close. A raw edge. “I made myself very clear, I think.”

Taako sets down his tea with a clatter and combs his fingers through his hair, hands sliding over his skull and down the back of his neck. “Brad, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, “did you...” A broken chuckle, his head bowing forward. “I, uh... I don’t remember everything we said when I was... with the spell-”

“No,” Brad says, and while Kravitz doesn’t yet know him well, it’s clear that he’s shaken. “No, Taako, I meant the voice message.”

Taako’s ears whip forward. “The what now?”

“The... the voice message I left while I was out of town,” Brad says, confusion eroding his careful gruffness. “I would have preferred to speak with you directly, but you weren’t answering your Stone.”

Kravitz watches Taako’s face while he processes this; the divot between his brows deepening, eyes gone a little unfocused as he spools through some months-old memory. “Out of town,” Taako mutters vaguely. “Which... when did you...” 

“After our...” Brad clears his throat and takes a large sip of tea. “Following our last evening. Together.”

In the immediate wake of that reference, Taako looks as if he wants to hurl his own tea aside and climb out the nearest window. But then his expression shifts from alarm to a wide-eyed confusion of shocked embarrassment. “Oh fuck,” he whispers, hoarse. “Oh fuck, you mean....” He laughs again, humorless and jagged. Kravitz knows better than to touch him when he’s upset like this, but it’s difficult to resist the urge; he knits his fingers together in his lap and watches Taako piece together what he wants to say. “Brad, I deleted it. I got freaked out, and Krav was there, and I don’t know, I don’t know I just deleted it, I never listened to it at all.”

Brad has been staring at Taako, and now looks back down at his cup. Kravitz can see his jaw working. “Ah. Then...” His thumbs shift on the porcelain. “Ah.”

“What did it say?” Taako asks, urgent. Leaning forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees. “What did _you_ say?”

“I think the moment has passed,” Brad says, already closing back in on himself. “My apologies for mentioning it, I hadn’t realized.”

Taako’s hand shoots out across the space between them; catches hold of Brad’s wrist, his fingers denting the wool. “Brad, please,” he says, reedy with undisguised desperation. “Seriously, please, I gotta...” He shakes Brad’s arm a little. “What did you say.”

Brad looks down at Taako’s hand on his arm, and Kravitz wonders if the two of them have touched each other since they parted ways. Likely not, if Brad’s expression now is any indication. 

The tip of Brad’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I said that I wanted to talk,” Brad rumbles, eyes still lowered. “I apologized for my part in what happened. And I told you that...” Here, he turns his palm upward; shifts his arm until Taako’s hand is resting across his. “I told you that I cared about you.” He closes his hand, swallowing Taako’s fingers. “Very much.”

“Oh,” Taako murmurs. He’s leaned far enough forward that Kravitz cannot see his face, only the flushed red curve of an ear, the taut lines of his neck. He lifts his empty hand to press the heel of his palm against one eye. “Shit.” A sharp, wet inhale through his nose. “Fuck.”

“I may also have said something about my childhood record collection,” Brad continues, quiet. “I’m sorry, it’s been some months and I was-”

“You fucking idiot,” Taako snaps. He sniffs again and scrubs at his face. “God, you have got to be _kidding_ me with this.”

Brad has not let go of Taako’s hand, but his eyes have rounded with confusion. “I... I’m sorry, you... asked me what I said, and-”

“One voice message?” Taako barks out a soggy laugh. “Have you _met_ me? I mean let’s be fuckin’ real here, there was like a fifty percent chance I didn’t even know I could _get_ voice messages.” He drops his hand on top of Brad’s closed fingers, folds in half until his forehead is resting on his knuckles. “Jesus _christ_ , Bradson.”

Brad’s eyes meet Kravitz’s across Taako’s back, and Kravitz offers what he hopes is an encouraging smile. It must be at least moderately on target, as Brad lifts his free hand to rest, hesitant, on Taako’s head. “I’m sorry,” Brad says quietly. “It seemed self-evident that the lack of reply was pointed. You made it clear that you preferred I keep my distance.”

“Yeah well, I thought you were gonna dump me for making our hookups weird,” Taako says, wet and muffled.

“What?”

“Because...” Taako sits up again and drags his sleeve across his eyes; glances at Kravitz and says, his voice faltering, “You know, because of the shit I said. That wasn’t...” He swallows. “We weren’t doing that, right? Like am I crazy, here? We weren’t doing that!”

“I’m sure I gave you no reason to think I was interested in you outside of sex,” Brad says. “I conducted myself impersonally. A misguided choice, and one I regret.”

“Listen, it’s not like I...” Taako’s shoulders drop as he sighs. “I knew there was shit I wanted. I should have just... fuckin asked for it.” 

Brad sits very still; does not look up, or smile, or relax. But there’s a softness to his voice when he asks, “What did you want?”

Kravitz expects a long pause at that; a great deal of agonized hedging, the truth dragged out in fragments. But Taako replies almost at once: a quiet, “More of you.”

“Well,” Brad rasps, and Kravitz imagines him grasping at the edges of a cloak, at a mask that’s been pulled off. Close reading of the emotions of mortals falls within both the personal and professional spheres of Kravitz’s interests, and although he’s still learning this orc’s particulars, certain things are already quite clear. Kravitz notes the too-quick thrum of the pulse along his neck; how he holds Taako’s fingers just a shade tighter as he searches for how to go on. “Well,” he says again, at last. “I can’t repair what’s behind us. But I’m here, now. For what that’s worth.”

Taako pulls his hand away, then, and sets both palms on top of his knees, elbows splayed, head hanging low as he draws a deep breath through his nose. “Wow,” he murmurs. “Wow, okay listen, Brad, you... you gotta be square with me.” He bounces his heels and looks between Brad’s empty hand, the pot of tea, his own bare feet. “Are you really... like, after all that stupid shit, and all this time, and... I mean hell, I have a _boyfriend_ , now, and he’s not going anywhere.” Kravitz’s throat tightens a little at that. And he slides a reassuring hand along Taako’s spine, fingertips following that familiar ridge, as Taako manages at last to say, “Do you still want to do this?”

“Of course,” Brad says, matter-of-fact. “I’ve missed you.” He folds his hands in his lap, eyes lowered. “My life has been poorer without you in it.”

Another raspy chuckle, and Taako says, “God, you weirdo.” He reaches over to shove at Brad’s shoulder. “Seriously, who talks like this? You and like...” More laughter as he sniffs again. “You and Krav, hell, I’m fuckin’... drowning in nerds...”

“As if you’d have it otherwise,” Kravitz says. He smiles at Brad. “Has this addressed your reservations?”

“Yes.” Brad sits up straighter in his chair. “I’m sorry, Kravitz. I’ve neglected your part in this. However unfortunate past misunderstandings may be, some things can’t be helped. I’ll understand, of course, if this is too much history for you to bring into your relationship.”

“You’ll find that I rather like history,” Kravitz says. He turns back to Taako, his smile widening. “And mess.”

“Okay the formality is killing me, I’m for real gonna die,” Taako says. “We’re doing this, right? Like we’ve collectively lost our fucking minds and we’re gonna make a go of whatever the hell this is?”

“This is dating,” Kravitz says. “And yes. It seems so.”

Taako pushes himself up and off the couch in a jerky burst of movement. “Okay great, good to know, glad we got that sorted out,” he says, already halfway to the kitchen. “How about we eat, huh? How about we fuckin’ eat something, I feel like I just ran a mile.”

*

Brad accepts his serving of quiche and salad in something of a daze.

His brain hasn’t entirely caught up with the fact that he’s here at all, and certainly is not equipped to help him decide what to do about it. Which he supposes is just as well, however alarming it feels to be caught so completely off guard. Brad is an orc of solid plans and intentionality, but impulse was what started him down this road to begin with, his and Taako’s alike — kissing against the wall of a cabin hours after they’d met. Impulse is why he slipped away last night to flirt with a man in a greenhouse, and why he agreed to be here today; to have this conversation.

It will probably do him some good to resist the urge to pin down every detail, to relax a little bit for once and allow himself to enjoy this: a pleasant lunch with two people whose company he’s glad to have. Sitting in a large kitchen flooded with pale winter sun, in a chair which he’s been told was made by Magnus Burnsides, as Kravitz relates the story of how Taako’s sister and brother-in-law came to be his coworkers. Brad listening, mostly, as he chews. Pointedly not mentioning -- trying, as best he can, not to even think about -- how much he already knows about Lup and Barry, both of them near-strangers. How much he knows about Taako.

That, in particular, feels discomfitingly skewed. So many details of heroism, so many harrowing cycles of self, and yet hardly a thing about his family beyond Lup; about his life before the IPRE, or the choices which led him to join. Nothing at all about the decade he spent on the road with his wagon, those tenuous years between Lucretia’s journals and the elf which Brad met at camp. 

And then there’s Kravitz, a handsome question mark. Months of responsibly avoiding all gossip about Taako’s new beau now flipped into laughable miscalculation. The man so thoroughly a mystery that Brad isn’t certain what questions he would even ask.

He doesn’t ask. Not today. He drinks their wine and eats what’s put in front of him, and chuckles softly as Kravitz describes Taako’s first audience with the Raven Queen. Kravitz shoulders most of the lunchtime chatter, a kindness Brad notices and is grateful for. He feels slightly dazed, the words wrung out of him. Thrown off balance by this sudden shift sideways into clever stories and laughter, into the promise of having been welcomed into this kitchen, of Taako watching him across the table. Good things -- blissfully, achingly good -- but so much all at once. 

Brad clears the plates once they’ve all finished, carries them over to the sink and sets to washing up. It’s a relief to have something useful and benign to do with his hands. He can hear Taako moving around the kitchen behind him, sharp noises of pottery and metal and the shuff of a rag along the counter. He isn’t sure when he’s expected to leave and finds he doesn’t want to ask.

Kravitz appears at his elbow. For a moment, Brad assumes he’s come to dry and put away clean dishes, but instead he turns and hops up onto the counter, just to the other side of the dish rack. Kravitz swings his legs a little and leans back on his palms, and Brad expects him to launch into some other charming anecdote -- to plaster over Brad’s reticence and Taako’s silent tidying.

Instead, they settle into a comfortable wordlessness. Kravitz softly humming as Brad rinses out the wine glasses, some tune Brad vaguely recognizes as Tiefling and very old. There’s a window above the sink that looks out on the courtyard between buildings, fenced rectangles of brick patios and gardens covered in straw for the winter. Bundles of thyme and rosemary hang from the lintel.

Brad is most of the way through the silverware when he feels the light press of fingertips on his back. When he pauses, hands stilled under the faucet, Taako murmurs a quiet, “Don’t stop.” And so Brad takes a steadying breath and tries to refocus on the task at hand. To keep rubbing a soapy cloth over flatware as Taako’s arms snake around his waist; as Taako’s face presses up between his shoulder blades, breathing moist and warm against his back. 

“This okay?” Taako asks, muffled by Brad’s sweater.

“Mm.” Brad picks up a knife; scrubs it clean; rinses the soap away; sets it to dry. Picks up the next despite the slow creep of Taako’s hand up the seam of his ribs, the press of a palm against his sternum. Despite the obvious sound of Taako inhaling through his nose, and the weight of the sigh which follows. 

Brad glances sideways, and feels a little flip in his stomach when he finds Kravitz watching them both. No longer humming. The intensity of his gaze offset by a smile tucked into the corners of his mouth.

The sink is empty. Brad shuts off the taps and dries his hands on the towel hung beside the window. He can feel Taako’s breath through his shirt, the twin points of pressure of Taako’s hands on his chest and on his stomach. Heat building in his groin as he imagines those long fingers wandering down. As he remembers the times when they have.

He slowly turns around in Taako’s arms, until his back is against the hard lip of the sink. Taako looking up at him, hands low on his back, their hips still held just far enough apart for deniability. His own hands settle at Taako’s waist, the urge to pull Taako closer only just resisted. He can smell Taako’s hair. 

What permission does he need, and from whom, now that he’s been welcomed into their circle? Into their home? Taako’s pupils are enormous, lips slightly parted; signs Brad knows extremely well, has drawn out on purpose many times, but never quite like this. Never with half a year of separation behind them and a new partner watching an arms-length away. _This_ he hasn’t the first idea how to navigate, although his trousers are now uncomfortably tight from how badly he wants to. 

A soft “Can I?” from Taako resolves the unwanted parts of this tension. What remains is drawn even tighter as Taako’s arms twine around his neck, gently pulling him down. 

Brad gives in at once. No chaste preamble, no hesitance. Taako’s mouth is open and warm and tastes of wine, of the chocolates that sit in a bowl on the table. And as their tongues slide together he makes a desperate sound high in his throat that sings, electric, up Brad’s spine. All of Brad’s reasons for patience and care forgotten, all burned away by the heat of Taako’s cock against his leg, by the ragged gasps of breath in the moments when they break apart. He no longer has to pretend not to want this, or tamp down his memory of how good the best of it had been. He kisses Taako with eager impatience as he slips his hands up the back of Taako’s shirt, velvet skin under his palms.

“Couch,” Taako murmurs against his lips, then steps away. He pulls at Brad’s arm but there’s no need to — his body is a magnet, inexorable, drawing Brad along as he pads into the living room. Brad doesn’t look behind him, doesn’t want to turn away from the sight of Taako’s body, but there’s a quiet thud of feet on tile as Kravitz gets down from the counter.

Taako pushes him backward onto the couch; is in Brad’s lap immediately after, straddling his hips, kissing his mouth and his jawline, his neck. Taako pulls away just long enough to drag shirt and sweater up over Brad’s head, an awkward tangle that gets caught on his ears and his glasses and sets both of them laughing, breathless and giddy with lust and relief.

The clothes are tossed aside on the floor, and Taako dips his head to mouth at Brad’s collarbones, to tongue each of his nipples in turn, greedy hands wandering over his ribs. Brad glimpses movement out of the corner of his eye, feels the couch cushions shift as Kravitz sits beside him. Kravitz, to whom he should pay some attention, but Taako is a siren; a flame in his arms, hot and hungry.

Taako slides off his lap, and Brad makes a small sound of protest in the moment before he realizes what’s to follow. Taako kneels on the floor and pushes Brad’s knees apart, wide enough for him to sit between, fingers already working at Brad’s belt before Taako remembers enough of himself — of their circumstances — to flash a questioning look between the other two men in the room.

“Oh please do,” Kravitz murmurs. He’s leaned in closer, warm against Brad’s arm. 

Then both of them are watching Brad. Taako’s palm cupping him through his pants and Kravitz’s fingertips on his wrist. 

A hoarse “Yes,” is all Brad can manage.

Kravitz lays a hand along Brad’s jaw and gently turns his head. “Lovely,” he murmurs, leaning in. Kissing him, languorous and thorough, fingers curling around the base of his skull. 

Brad is distantly aware of his fly being opened. It’s hard to think of anything else when Kravitz has pinned him like this, but his pulse spikes with lust as he’s worked out of his underwear, out into the cool air. And he gasps between kisses as the slick heat of Taako’s mouth slides down the length of his cock. 

He’s lightheaded from the intensity of it; knows that it must be making him sloppy, but Kravitz doesn’t seem to mind. If anything his attentions ramp up further, each involuntary shudder that Taako draws from Brad echoed by a sharp inhale through Kravitz’s nose, a word of encouragement whispered into Brad’s mouth. One of Brad’s hands resting on the back of Taako’s head and the other reaching blindly for Kravitz’s body. His fingers find silk and small buttons, slide downward to where a narrow line of warmth is pushing against the front of Kravitz’s trousers. A barrier which abruptly vanishes, gone between one moment and the next. And while under some other circumstances Brad might have wondered at this, just now he’s holding a cock in his hands and can’t really be bothered to question the logistics. 

He breaks the kiss long enough to hum slickness onto his palm, very nearly spoiling the last few notes as Taako swallows around him. “Clever,” Kravitz murmurs, a hitch of breath. The whole narrow length of him fits in Brad’s hand.

After that, the details swim together. Brad’s cock at the back of Taako’s throat, one hand twined in yellow hair, Kravitz rutting into his palm and moaning into his mouth, the rainwater scent of Kravitz’s skin. Fingers at Brad’s nape and kneading Brad’s thighs, soft wet sounds of lips and tongues, the rasp of all their breathing. 

Brad’s hips jerk forward as he comes in Taako’s mouth. And once the spasming aftershocks have passed he kisses Kravitz once more, solid and deliberate, before pulling Taako clumsily into his lap. He tastes himself on Taako’s tongue, bites gently at his lip and whispers, “Wait.” Then he reaches over to pull Kravitz closer to them both, to circle his fingers more deliberately around Kravitz’s cock. The bulk of Brad’s attention now directed at the twist and slide of his hand, the details of Kravitz’s breathing, as he kisses both of them in turn. Taako’s cock tucked up against Brad’s stomach, obvious through his trousers. Taako kissing along the lines of Brad’s neck when Brad’s mouth is otherwise occupied, hands sliding along Brad’s torso, along Kravitz’s back, up into Kravitz’s hair. 

Kravitz curls around Brad with a crackling cry, face pressed into his neck, and spills through his fingers. Stays there, boneless, as Brad and Taako kiss his forehead, his face, the blunt curve of his ear. Kravitz groans as he lifts his arms and drapes them about both their shoulders. He holds them close for just a while longer before he chuckles, lifts his head to kiss Taako’s cheek, and then shifts backward toward the end of the couch. 

Brad catches his eye; is trying to think of what he even wants to ask when Kravitz murmurs, “He missed you.”

Brad swings his head back around. Taako is staring straight at him, his eyes wide and dark. The wisps of hair around his face catching the afternoon sunlight. A hummingbird flutter along his throat. 

Brad should say something now, he knows. He should force the words for what he’s feeling up and out of his chest; force his mouth to shape them. 

He cups Taako’s face in both his hands. Slowly. Gently. Leans in, his eyes half-lidded, to kiss Taako again. He doesn’t have the words but he has _this_ , at least. Taako’s body in his lap. The pleasantly awkward squirm of Taako wriggling out of his pants without getting up, a little huff of laughter as he nearly overbalances. Not a journal etched into Brad’s memory but a person, a weight on his legs. A tongue in his mouth.

Brad could draw this out, but he finds he doesn’t want to. He’s had his fill of patience.

Slippery fingers around Taako’s cock; one hand lifted to the curve of an ear, thumb slowly tracing along lines of cartilage. Taako’s breath shallow and ragged, arms around Brad’s shoulders and nails digging into his back. Whispering nonsense fragments between kisses, until even those dissolve into a thin wail of pleasure as the wave crests and breaks.

Taako collapses against him, panting hard. A hand loosely fisted in the front of Brad’s shirt. Brad smoothes the hair back from his face and kisses his temple and murmurs, “You’re very good,” which wins Brad a pleased little hum. It’s not enough, not at all, but it’s what he can manage. Everything else feels too dangerous to say.

Kravitz is still watching them, still perched on the arm of the couch. When Brad gestures welcome, he crawls forward to lean comfortably against Brad’s side; uncurls one languid arm to reach for Taako’s cheek and pinch it, affectionate. Taako laughs a little as he bats the hand away. 

Brad looks past the top of Taako’s head, out at the rest of the room. At the bookshelves and paintings, the fireplace and the line of curiosities on the mantle, the worn rug patterned with flowers and leaves. A cardigan draped over the back of a chair. Tall windows which spill rectangles of light across the floor.

“Hey,” Taako murmurs. He shifts enough to look up at Brad’s face. “Hey listen, I ah....I think the bed would be more comfy. For this.”

“All right,” Brad rumbles.

“Could you...” Taako sighs and sits up the rest of the way and tucks his hair back. “Could you wait for us there? Just... just for a sec? I told... I promised Krav we could...” He pauses to take what’s likely meant to be a steadying breath. “We just gotta check in.”

Brad abruptly, absurdly, feels as if Taako is standing on his chest. “Of course,” he says. And Taako darts in for a last quick kiss before climbing off of him.

Brad tucks himself back into his trousers as he stands, his hands automatically doing up the fly and the belt. He considers fetching his shirt and sweater but he hasn’t been told to get dressed, and for some reason it strikes him as intensely important to follow the letter of what’s been asked. Maybe because this all feels so unlikely, still, so impossible to get his head around. Everything a jagged edge for this soap bubble moment to break against. 

On the couch, Taako and Kravitz have moved to sit beside each other. Taako’s hand on Kravitz’s bare knee. Both of them watching Brad as he hums a short spell to clean the worst of the mess from his stomach and the front of his pants.

“It’s just down the hall,” Kravitz says. His smile is wide and kind and clearly intended to set Brad at ease, and Brad tells himself to accept it as offered. To smile back as honestly as he can, and turn away, and follow the unfamiliar hall toward the sliver of carpet and linens he can see through a half-open door.

Of course the two of them need to talk. They’re in a relationship. A real one, trusted and lived-in, which has lasted for longer than he and Taako were together. Brad has never done this — never tried to juggle two hearts at once — but he understands the general shape of how people work when they’re in love, the fundamentals of intimacy. He knows that he’s the intruder here.

Brad sits on the edge of the bed and its duvet patterned in botanicals. It’s large enough to fill most of the room, and the space which remains is occupied by wardrobes and chests of drawers. A huge gilt mirror hangs on one wall, bordered in sculpted birds. The windows must look out onto the street, but they’re covered with gauzy white curtains which dim and soften the light.

Will Kravitz escort him home again? He brought money but not a change of clothes, and these will smell like sex until he’s able to wash them properly. Not the end of the world, but not ideal for an evening on the train, either. Ah, and it’s the weekend, on top of everything else. He won’t even be able to catch an express.

He really should have picked up his shirt. Brad isn’t easily mortified, but the thought that he might have to navigate the vagaries of not-quite, the artifice of polite regret, while half-dressed in this bedroom is enough to bring heat to his face.

He tries to think of what he’ll say. Something polite and small and easy. He doesn’t want to make Taako feel any more awkward; he won’t force an explanation. All of this was a long shot to begin with. 

Footsteps sound in the hallway. Two distinct sets of them, one rapid enough to count as a run, and as soon as Brad has registered this Taako appears in the doorway, naked from the waist down and grinning a little foolishly. “Hey, sorry,” Taako says, muffled as he pulls his shirt off over his head. 

“Ah,” Brad says, internally scrambling to make sense of this. He watches Kravitz saunter in from the hall, still completely nude and smug as a housecat, although he frowns a bit when he catches sight of Brad.

“Beg pardon, I didn’t mean for you to wait on us,” Kravitz says. 

“I’m... sorry?”

“Get in bed you weirdo,” Taako says from behind him. Brad looks back over his shoulder and watches as Taako wiggles down under the covers, absolutely beaming. “I just washed the sheets like, for real. Like in the machine, they feel like _sex_.”

“You needed to check in,” Brad says, feeling as if he’s lagged several minutes behind the rest of the conversation.

Taako snorts. “Yeah well, he said we had to like ‘confirm our mutual comfort’ or whatever but we may as well have just high-fived each other if I’m being fuckin’ honest.”

Kravitz laughs as he rounds the bed to what’s presumably his side. “Taako, I’m _certain_ you aren’t belittling the idea of proper emotional hygiene.”

The mattress moves as Taako leans forward, reaching out to touch Brad’s elbow. “Hey so, I thought maybe I’d make dinner later? There’s a butcher down the street, I could get a couple chickens.” Taako looks nervous again, but not in the way he did before. There aren’t any lines of tension around his smile. “Or maybe a big steak, whatever you want, I’ve got some brussels sprouts in the ice box I need to use up and they go with everything.”

“I’m...” Brad folds his hands in his lap. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be at all,” Kravitz says. “Stay as long as you like, I’m certain you’ll tire of our nonsense before the other way ‘round.” He slips under the covers with Taako, and Brad cannot help but note the large space they’ve left between them; a third pillow which has a different case than the other two.

“This is all...” Brad hesitates. “I realize this has been very sudden, and I don’t... I would prefer not to-”

“Hey.” Taako’s hand shifts to Brad’s shoulder. “Listen, I’m not gonna... I mean, do what you want but...” A soft, self-conscious laugh. “I want you to stay.”

There are good reasons for Brad to leave; to give himself some time to process and recover. Just as there were good reasons not to be here at all today, or to linger after lunch was finished, or to allow himself to be intimate with these men so quickly, and with so little discussion beforehand.

Brad stands up and efficiently strips off his pants. They’re grinning at him when he turns to face the bed again, and Kravitz whistles appreciatively, which makes Taako laugh. Brad folds his glasses and sets them on the nightstand. Taako pulls his legs up against his chest to clear a path for Brad to slip under the covers with them from the side, rather than crawling awkwardly up the middle. 

Brad hasn’t considered the logistics of this at all, but after a moment’s thought he settles on his back. Kravitz immediately slots himself up against his side, cuddling in close with his face pressed to Brad’s neck. Taako follows suit, but more slowly; cautiously. A hand and forearm lain flat on Brad’s chest but not their full weight. 

Brad curls his arm around and brushes his fingertips along Taako’s hairline; turns his head to softly kiss Taako’s forehead, then his eyelid, then his mouth. And Taako sighs as he relaxes by a fraction.

It’s quiet. Brad can hear wagons and horses on the street below, the voices of pedestrians, but only just. The sheets rustle as Taako moves beneath them, one leg coming up to hook around Brad’s. Kravitz nuzzles under his jaw with a pleased little hum. He listens to the three of them breathing.

The day begins to catch up with him. 

Taako is here. Right _here_ , warm and naked and good smelling. Here because he called and said “I’ve missed you,” and asked for Brad to come. Because he kissed Brad in the kitchen and undressed him on the couch and asked him to stay once they were finished. It’s so good that it hurts a little; like Brad is feeling all that time apart at once, now that he’s survived it. A foolish way to think about so small a share of suffering -- an empty bed, an average loneliness, nothing compared to the ruin of the Hunger or the struggle of rebuilding. But he can’t talk himself out of the ache in his chest, or the painful clench in his throat. They’re embarrassing but they’re also true.

Brad kisses the close-shaved curve of Kravitz’s head. “I’d like to hold him for a little while,” Brad rumbles, low. “If that’s all right.” It feels like a dangerous thing to ask for.

Kravitz reaches up to pat his cheek. Murmurs “Of course,” kisses Brad’s neck, and unwinds himself from Brad’s body.

Taako’s eyes are very round as he watches Brad turn onto his side. There’s nervousness there, and maybe something else as well. But when Brad gestures for Taako to settle back into his arms, Taako moves to do so without hesitation. He twists around and scoots backward, until his shoulders are flush with Brad’s chest and their hips are nested snugly together. Brad’s arm closes around him, holding him near. Brad’s nose in his hair. Kravitz tucked up against Brad’s back, a hand resting on his waist.

None of them speak. Brad can’t think of what he would say, just now. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of Taako in his arms, on all the details of Taako’s nearness, the weight of Taako’s head on his bicep.

They are going to have to talk, and soon. About the specifics of sex -- what’s known already and what’s wanted going forward. About Kravitz and his work and what sort of creature he is, exactly. About the gaps in Brad’s understanding of the past four months, and all that’s changed since early summer. There are scars on Taako’s body which Brad doesn’t remember.

They are going to have to talk, but not right now. 

Now, he’ll lie in this comfortable bed with these beautiful men beside him. Cosily surrounded. Absurdly lucky.

A good place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.
> 
> WELL.
> 
> There's still a long ways to go but, ah...
> 
> Gosh, here we are, huh? 
> 
> I CANNOT thank RQT and Gulch enough for their help and their encouragement with this story. I had to revise it extensively from its first draft (written way back in OCTOBER) and I don't know how I'd have managed without The Team to back me up.
> 
> And thank you so FUCKING MUCH to every person who's supported IWTB on its winding path to the three main characters ACTUALLY BEING IN THE SAME ROOM, 100K+ words into this madness. You are all PERFECT ANGELS OF KINDNESS AND GENEROSITY and I treasure you more than I can say.
> 
> The title is from [The Great Optimist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=da_f_tI-fvs), by Paul Dempsey
> 
> \- [@Wildgoosery](https://twitter.com/wildgoosery)


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